Chapter Twenty-Two
She is clutching her sketchbook as she arrives at the café, breathing in the scent of coffee and croissants. It’s hot, even though it’s early. Soon shimmering heat will sweep across the city, surrounding the landmarks with a haze.
He’s waiting for her at their usual table, the one where they first met.
Her stomach twists and rolls when she sees him – a combination of nerves, excitement and dread.
His face, that beautiful, angular face, breaks into a smile as he spots her.
Her heart flares in the same way it always does whenever she sees that smile, and for a brief moment, she wishes she didn’t feel like this.
Then it would be so much easier to leave him.
Because this is it – she got in. An art school in Florence, something that still feels surreal.
She didn’t really expect to be accepted.
She hasn’t even told her parents yet, because she knows what the reaction will be.
But she’s going. She has to give it a chance, has to try to break free.
She doesn’t want to think too hard about what will happen to her mother once she’s left, or of the blame that will be thrown her way for abandoning her.
How ironic, that she received the letter today of all days.
On the anniversary of the bomb that killed her sister.
She’s been to see her mother this morning, and it was awful.
Her father didn’t come home last night – she doesn’t know what time he’ll be back, or if he’ll stay away, unable to deal with his wife’s spiralling grief, her inability to move on even after all these years.
It wasn’t the right time to tell her mother about Florence this morning.
She’ll break the news in a few days. But before that, she has to tell him.
Has to tell him she won’t be coming to Hollywood with him.
That was never her dream anyway. And she can’t wait around for these moments in Paris, can’t sit here hoping for something more between them when he is so desperate to chase all that life has to offer.
She reaches the table, and he kisses her on the cheek, lightly, respecting the fact that they are in public.
‘I have something to tell you,’ he announces without preamble, that smooth velvet voice that she loves.
She sets the sketchbook on her lap. He doesn’t comment on it. She always carries one around with her, after all. Only this time, the letter is inside it. ‘Well that’s a coincidence, because I have something to tell you too.’
He grins, then gestures. ‘You first.’
‘No, you,’ she insists. Because she thinks she knows what it is he wants to say – she thinks he’s finally going to tell her that this is it, that he’s leaving for America, chasing the bigger-budget films, with bigger orchestras.
He cocks his head. ‘Should we argue about it a bit, do you think? Just for show?’ She laughs, but waits. It’ll be easier to tell him if she already knows he’s leaving her.
He leans forward, sunlight bouncing off his pale gaze. She’s tried countless times to get the exact shade of his eyes in her drawings – somehow, she never can.
‘I’m staying in Paris,’ he says, and his voice is soft, almost a caress.
She blinks. ‘You’re … staying? As in permanently?’
He nods. ‘Permanently. What happened with my dad …’ He trails off, and she reaches for his hand automatically, wanting to comfort him.
His father died a few months ago, and she knows it’s been awful for him.
Not just the loss itself, but because he wasn’t there when it happened – he was with her instead.
He doesn’t blame her for it. But she knows he blames himself.
He shakes his head, like he’s shaking himself out of something.
‘It made me realise – I’ve been chasing the idea of something better since before I can remember.
’ He watches their joined hands as he talks.
‘Chasing excitement, like I only have so long to experience it. But my dad and you have made me realise that I don’t want that.
I don’t want to be chasing an idea. Maybe it would be good to sit still, to appreciate everything I have.
’ He lifts his gaze to hers. ‘And with you, I know I already have everything I need.’
Something tightens within her as she swallows. ‘I don’t think I know what you mean,’ she says slowly, not sure whether to believe him and not sure, with everything so tight inside her, how she feels about it.
His thumb circles against her wrist. ‘I want to be with you,’ he murmurs. ‘I want to stay here with you. I know America isn’t what you want – but Paris, that could be for both of us.’ He takes a breath, and she watches the movement of his chest. ‘I want you to marry me – if you want that too.’
For a second, she can only stare at him, her body not catching up with what her brain is hearing. She sees the doubt flicker over his face, feels the way his thumb stills against her pulse. ‘Only if you—’
‘Of course I do!’ The words burst from her, eclipsing all thought of the letter, of art school and Florence.
‘Of course I want that.’ She takes his face in her hands, not caring about the disapproval emanating from the lady at the table next to them.
She kisses him, brief and hard. And feels the sense of rightness as she does.
Because there are other art schools, aren’t there? There will be other chances.
And what is today, the significance of the date, if not a reminder to take the things you want, because you don’t know how long you’ll be alive to experience them?
It was meant to happen today, she knows.
She was meant to face this choice, on this date, to remind her to live for the moment.
And in this moment, what she wants, above anything else, is him.
A laugh bubbles from her and she gets to her feet. She pulls him up, hearing his laugh merge with hers. ‘Come on,’ she demands. ‘We need to go somewhere. We need to celebrate.’
‘We are somewhere,’ he says, still laughing.
‘And trust me, I’ve got ideas on how we can celebrate.
’ The way his says it, voice dropping low, his gaze holding hers, sends a bolt of something right through her.
Then she laughs again, because this is good, this is perfect.
This is exactly what was supposed to happen.
She links her fingers with his, drags him from the table, away from the café and down the street. She doesn’t know where exactly she’s heading, only that she needs to go somewhere.
‘Wait, what did you want to tell me?’ he asks. But she just shakes her head in answer. She doesn’t want to mention it, because she knows it’ll make him question his decision, knows he’ll worry about holding her back, and she doesn’t want that.
She’s not concentrating as she charges across the next road.
He’s speaking, but her head is too light and his words blend into something she can’t quite understand.
She doesn’t hear it until it’s too late.
The car horn. The screeching of brakes. When she turns to see it, it’s in slow motion, like it is happening to someone else, someone onscreen, someone far away.
A car, coming towards her in the street. She’s paralysed, her mind moving far too slowly for the urgency of the situation. She hears her name screamed from what sounds like a long way away. Then she feels him pushing her out of the road. Trying to save her.
But it’s not enough. She feels the impact of the bonnet, feels her skull cracking against tarmac. Another blast of the horn, people screaming. Her ears ringing. Only this isn’t a panic attack. This isn’t her body thinking it’s been hurt – she really has been.
Her movements are slow. She can taste blood in her mouth as she rolls on the tarmac. She doesn’t think she can feel her legs, doesn’t think she can stand.
She tries to blink through the pain, tries to think. She can see shattered glass on the tarmac, and there are people running towards her, blocking her view.
But through the chaos, she can see him, further down the road. He tried to push her out of the way, and took most of the impact in the process. There is blood seeping from a crack in his skull, his neck crooked at an impossible angle.
She knows he’s dead. Even as she tries to crawl towards him, she knows. And she knows with a certainty she can’t explain that she will die today too.
To Nicole’s credit, she only does the smallest of double-takes when she opens her front door to see not just Lissa, but Ash too, standing on her doorstep.
Her gaze sweeps over him, taking in the black jacket slung over one arm, the messy dark hair, the stubble that Lissa is learning he lets grow out because he can’t be bothered to shave. Then she smiles.
‘Lissa. And Ash? Come in!’
It’s impressive, really, how she immediately treats Ash like a part of the family – or at least a good, well-known friend of Lissa’s – when in reality it was only a few days ago that Lissa asked her dad if it was okay to bring Ash to his birthday barbecue.
After all, he took her to meet his dad, so it’s only polite to return the favour.
Plus, she thought it might make the barbecue easier to bear – someone to share the small talk with.
Nicole takes the bottle of damson gin (a more interesting offering than wine, according to Ash) with a smile of thanks, then gestures towards the back garden. ‘Come on. Everyone’s out here – we got so lucky with the weather, didn’t we?’